I've got your number Ch1
by C. Jackmen
Summary: Wolverine is on the quest to find out more about his past. Meets a women who my hold keys to his past. However opening that door may lend to more problems.


"I've got your number!" Ch.1

He had ridden all day through the blistering desert sun. He desperately needed fuel, a meal and a drink for starters. Then he'd locate a shower and bed for the night. He recognized a sign for The Watering Hole and pulled into the combo station and tavern. He could smell that musky earthly scent, that was his own and noticed the three slick claw marks on the post of the sign, he'd imprinted some time ago. So he knew he was on the right trek. He lined his wide thick fingers though the impressions, he tried to determine how long ago they were made. He inhaled with the hope his nose would give him more of a clue of the time; however, no luck the scent was too old. But he did picked up a sweeter smell, it was candied and fresh, a women. He smiled, and then exhaled. Then dropped the grin when he landed a glimpse of his bashed sand and wind beaten fleshy hand and knuckles as it promptly healed it's self. He scanned around; cupped his hands under his leather sleeved jacket, before sprung the nozzle from the tank. He made sure no one else noticed either; afterward he paid the station attendant.

"Thanks Buddy. Ya know if they serve food?" He asked after the man gave him his change. The station attendant just shrugged his shoulders, never even made eye contact. The guy was clueless. The rider rode his bike over to the tavern entrance; parked his 1949 Harley Davidson Hydra Glide out front by the glass picture window. He stepped back checked out the sand damage to his vehicle. He positioned motorcycle by the arch just in case he needed a quick exit, this place looked a little rough and he had a way of making friends into enemies. He walked into the door of the _Watering Hole_. The sand trickled down each ripple and wrinkle of his dark brown leather jacket, which framed his solid burly physique. As he unzipped his sandy sooty jacket, he kicked and shook his broad quads to chase the dust from his dirty jeans and stumped his brown boots. Then he removed his tarnished aviator sunglasses cruelly folded them and clipped them inside his jacket. He looked around the dimly lit bar. The place was empty expect for a few clad bruits whom hovered over their poison. He rubbed the sand out of his charcoal coal hair and beard, he thought to himself, "_Something about this place smells sweetly familiar._"

He waft in the kitchen; he arrowed straight up to the bartender. "Hey bub, got any grub"? The whiskery old man stood with a white muscle shirt, soiled apron and a towel over the right shoulder. He gave the rider a good long look before he answered. The whiskery bartender stood about 6ft; seven inches taller the rider. And maybe 280-300lbs. He was a bigger man. The bartender sucked his teeth and sized up the dusty rider. The rider did not flinch. The rider could sense danger, and this guy just looked tough.

The bartender called back to the kitchen without taking his eyes off this new visitor, "Got a fella here who wants a bite". The rider noticed a sign that hang: Kitchen Closed. Now it was clear why the bartender had sized him up. Still, he did not soften his gaze at the whiskery old man, he waited.

The guy in the kitchen called up to the bartender. The bartender looked over his shoulder back to the cook to get a better ear. The cook called, "All's I got is some meat and noodles left. No sauce." The bartender turned to relay the message to the rider.

"All's we have is-"

Before he could finish, the rider cut him off.

"I'll take it. Oh, and I'll take a double Jack with a beer back. Whatever is the cheapest bottled"? The bartender gave it to him with his total. He handed the man cash and took a seat by the window. He quickly ate and asked for another round of drinks. The rider sat back and observed the people in the bar. He kept to himself.

Drink after drink order he watched the crowd grow larger and then smaller again. The sun began to set. He drew his attention outdoors. He witnessed the reds and blues the horizon painted the sky. The desert air brought in a huge gust of wind that swirled the sand near. The rider tried to understand why he would have marked the pole and when he did it. And why that sweet scent haunted him. Outside he watched a dust bowl blow closer; he inhaled deeply he thought about what the desert sand was doing to his newly painted Hydra. _"Why did I decide to ride though the Mojave?" _He thought to himself and took another deep breath. The sweet trace of lavender and vanilla, everywhere in this place seemed to grow stronger.

The scent comforted him; like finally arriving home on a cold night to a toasty cottage in the woods after a long and endless journey. He could almost hear the umbers crack. But this was not the home nor a cold evening, wasn't it even wooded. It was scorching, dry and some dingy old bar in the middle of nowhere. _"If I could only remember this place and why I would have come here. I know I marked it for a reason."_, he thought to himself. He leaned back in his seat. Closed his eyes for a moment tried to recall the last time he may have been here. With his eyes shot, his keen sense of smell and hearing took over. In the distance he could hear a Hayabusa, the sound of the motorcycle, he guessed 20 miles away. As the bike advanced so did the fragrance. He glanced out the window again, and viewed the spiraled sand as the Suzuki approached. The metallic ebony bike speed into the bar's lot and thundered several daunts before it finally benevolently parked next to his Hydra. He heard the booming music that came from the stereo helmet. The sand that had steamrolled through all the hustle pleasantly descended back to earth and charmingly rolled down her slight frame, which made the motorcycle seem massive.

His eyes cut though the dust and sand, as it began to settle, he saw her. It was the women whose scent lay everywhere in this place. Still seated her speed machine, she effortlessly removed her metallic black helmet which revealed her waist length ginger ringlets that mystically whipped the wind. (Now if you didn't know our rider, he has a true weakness for redheads.) She primped in the reflection of the large window. She rubbed her lips ruby before she spellbindingly hurtled form her mammoth machine. He sat up in his seat. His eyes followed the curves of her body. She wore a black leather jacket that streamlined her ample bosom, and narrowed out her delicate waist; tattered blue jeans allowed snick peeks of her silky alabaster skin and black heeled boots over her knees focused the eye to her shapely hips and thighs. His jaw dropped. She pleasingly worked her way to the window; seemly looked him in the eyes, then continued to preen her apparel in the mirroring glass of the window. Unzipped her jacket and folded her boots down below the knee. When she pitched forward, he spied her lacy unders. His nostrils flared as he enveloped that candy-coded incense. He never once did he take his eyes off of her. And she knew it.

The redolence of her honey like scent reminded him of the caves he and "Dog" played in a child so many life times ago. He eyes unmistakably followed her as she gracefully walked through the door. He tried to keep a picture of him and Dog as boys, so that his attraction would not be detected by her or any one else for that matter. But, it was too late, she was aware. The aura of the drinkery completely changed.

The once gloomy grungy gray feel of the tavern became shiny and had a renewed brightness. The whole place seemed to have had a rosy color to it now. He wasn't quite sure if it was his own sensual crave, or if this woman actually changed the atmosphere herself. All the men smiled and sat up straight when she made her way to the bartender. She was stunning; Even the rider himself straightened his back and wiped his mouth just to make sure he hadn't drooled. By the rhythm of her step he noted she cared a weapon or two. Probably for protection in the tougher places like this he gathered. She was small, short not fragile or frail. She definitely could hold her own. Slim and fit, taught and compacted, his type. She stood just less than 5 foot tall before the 5inch heels. She was lean and strong, her torn blue jeans looked painted on. She unzipped her jacket fully and bared her form fitted white t-shirt, she kept her gloves on.

It was obvious she had been here before, do to fact he could smelled her essence everywhere. She had her back to him, as she faced the whiskered man. The rider unzipped his leather jacket took out a cigar. He eyeballed every little twit and jerks her tush made as her tip toed to lean over the bar. His mouth watered. Even the wiggle of her heels was not left unnoted. He patted his pockets and looked for a lighter. Without a turn of her head, she shouted, "Heads up!" and tossed a tarnished flip lighter onto his table. The silver lighter landed an inch from his finger tips. He picked it up, he noticed the faded initials: R.A.W. His fingers remembered holding this lighter before. He buffed the letters with his right thumb and a little bit of the fuel leaked out on to his hand. He closed it and licked the fuel from his fingers. Then he softly placed it on the table. He smelled and tasted the different notes. This was not your every day store bought fuel. It was different, homemade. He closed his eyes to inhale the freshly lit smoke.

A vision of a girl running in a field of lavender and tall grass pops in to his head. The girl was smiling and laughing, maybe 14 years old. He Tried to focus on the girl's face, the aromatic scent of vanilla seeded deeper the deeper. The memory became more vivid. Just as the girl's face became clear, the fiery redhead grabbed the lighter off the table. His eyes opened and he looked up. He gleamed to thanks her. She said nothing and walked to the music box, her back to him once again. She could feel his yearning stare, she ignored it for the most part, but a very small half smile curled the corner of her left lip. The bartender called out to her. "Rose we are just 'bout out o' _Jack._ _That_ _fella" _he pointed his head to the rider, "in the wind'r been drink'n it like wa'r. We have two bottles _Wil' Turkey _'n two _Makers, _which ya wan'?"

Under their breath in unison, as if it was rehearsed, she and the rider both said faintly to their self's, "UUHa, Wild Turkey, I'd rather drink goat urine." The rider cocked an eye brow her way; his heightened ears heard her words.

"Let's start with the Makers and give me that bottle of Jack and a glass!" He handed her the two bottles, one Makers and the other the 3/4 empty Jack Daniels and the glass. He was surprised she asked for a glass. Normally she drank straight from the bottle. Rose smiled, winked and said, "Thanks Scottie." Before she turned around, she lost the smile on the lips; however it still glowed in her eyes, and she strutted over to the rider. "Okay. Finish what you start!"She said and slammed the bottle of Jack down onto the table. The table jarred, so did the ashtray, his cup, but not his wrist and stogie, in front of him. He lifted them in anticipation of her jolt. She paid attention to his agility. She stood held her glass and bottle. Then she poured herself a glass of Makers and he looked up at her, his eyes fixed. He kicked the chair away from the table and gestured for her to sit. She did.


End file.
